So.
I wouldn't necessarily call my situation a crisis. I would call it a heavy malaise. There isn't really anything to me. I'm unremarkable, common, and boring. I go through ups and downs just like everyone else. I wouldn't call myself a drunk; I've got a healthy drinking habit, and I enjoy putting my alcohol in funny places, such as rolling up bottles of vodka in my sleeping bag and putting five liter bags (yes, bags) of acrid wine in my sock drawer.
Bag wine is awful stuff. The makers simply have to know their main demographic. First you're pouring it into glasses, then you're cussing at the bag because it keeps flopping over your eyes while you're trying to drink straight from the plastic spigot.
I'm an insurance agent, which means I think about suicide eight or nine times a day. I don't actually consider suicide very often, but suicide crosses my mind more often than sex. Call it a professional curiosity.
I'm a self-destructive procrasinator. I put things off, even while I'm trying to get them done. I'll stare at a blank computer screen with a deadline just outside the door, then put on some music and fall asleep. I think success up until this point has been chiefly coincidental.
I have to talk to policy holders as an insurance agent, which means I would abuse prescription drugs if I got the chance. I hate my job. I hate my life. I would rather be killed by the yaks at the zoo than talk to someone who calls me names referencing ethnicities and races to which I don't belong. I have had a man tell me he was going to come to my office and kill me over a $33 dispute. I hate people.
I can't go out at night any more. I go to work, come home, and drink myself to sleep without dinner. I weigh less than 135lbs now. I can't interact with people like I used to. If a girl or a boy came along and wanted to hook up, I wouldn't know what to do. Oh. There's another thing.
I am trying, with everything that I am, to avoid hating women. There are good, nice women out there who don't want to grind my testamonials into my gall bladder. They're adept, stealthy little creatures.
I'm not going anywhere, and if I'm not careful, I'll be doing this for another 35 years.
I have to go to work tomorrow and sit in front of divorcing couples. One such couple I've screwed over for $200 by accident. An honest mistake. But they're still screwed. I have to live with that. I have to tell the guy whose house burned down that we're not going to help him because he lapsed. He's screwed for life. I have to tell the guy with the $1.3 million dollar claim that we're not going to help him pay for it because he was driving a truck with a magnetic business logo on the side, so it should've been rated business class instead of private passenger class. He has five kids.
I can't sleep on Sunday nights through Thursday nights, because I know I'll have to go to work the next morning.
Sometimes when I'm at work I can feel a shadow of my arm reaching for something that cuts or burns, and so far I've been good at stopping it, save once. Okay, four times. Had to throw away all my short sleeves.
I can't write anymore. I loved writing. Had a book going. My creativity's dead. My job sucked it out of my head, aborted it, and replaced it with a gray three-ring binder of insurance regulations. That's the hardest thing to come to grips with. My sense of humor's gone. I'm rotten, cynical, and depressing.
I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating. I'm not talking to people who aren't calling me at work, and I'm not writing. I think about killing myself. I'm not registering for graduate school. I'm not getting closer to my dream career, and if I ever got close, I'm sure they'd do a background check, find me here, venting, and reject my application. And that's depressing, also.
I think there are fleas in my bed. My room's clean, but I'm getting bitten by some little insect bastard every night.
I need to sort things out. I went to a restaraunt today, and for whatever reason, nearly cried in my General Tso's Chicken. It was just chicken. Sad, depressing chicken.
I wouldn't necessarily call my situation a crisis. I would call it a heavy malaise. There isn't really anything to me. I'm unremarkable, common, and boring. I go through ups and downs just like everyone else. I wouldn't call myself a drunk; I've got a healthy drinking habit, and I enjoy putting my alcohol in funny places, such as rolling up bottles of vodka in my sleeping bag and putting five liter bags (yes, bags) of acrid wine in my sock drawer.
Bag wine is awful stuff. The makers simply have to know their main demographic. First you're pouring it into glasses, then you're cussing at the bag because it keeps flopping over your eyes while you're trying to drink straight from the plastic spigot.
I'm an insurance agent, which means I think about suicide eight or nine times a day. I don't actually consider suicide very often, but suicide crosses my mind more often than sex. Call it a professional curiosity.
I'm a self-destructive procrasinator. I put things off, even while I'm trying to get them done. I'll stare at a blank computer screen with a deadline just outside the door, then put on some music and fall asleep. I think success up until this point has been chiefly coincidental.
I have to talk to policy holders as an insurance agent, which means I would abuse prescription drugs if I got the chance. I hate my job. I hate my life. I would rather be killed by the yaks at the zoo than talk to someone who calls me names referencing ethnicities and races to which I don't belong. I have had a man tell me he was going to come to my office and kill me over a $33 dispute. I hate people.
I can't go out at night any more. I go to work, come home, and drink myself to sleep without dinner. I weigh less than 135lbs now. I can't interact with people like I used to. If a girl or a boy came along and wanted to hook up, I wouldn't know what to do. Oh. There's another thing.
I am trying, with everything that I am, to avoid hating women. There are good, nice women out there who don't want to grind my testamonials into my gall bladder. They're adept, stealthy little creatures.
I'm not going anywhere, and if I'm not careful, I'll be doing this for another 35 years.
I have to go to work tomorrow and sit in front of divorcing couples. One such couple I've screwed over for $200 by accident. An honest mistake. But they're still screwed. I have to live with that. I have to tell the guy whose house burned down that we're not going to help him because he lapsed. He's screwed for life. I have to tell the guy with the $1.3 million dollar claim that we're not going to help him pay for it because he was driving a truck with a magnetic business logo on the side, so it should've been rated business class instead of private passenger class. He has five kids.
I can't sleep on Sunday nights through Thursday nights, because I know I'll have to go to work the next morning.
Sometimes when I'm at work I can feel a shadow of my arm reaching for something that cuts or burns, and so far I've been good at stopping it, save once. Okay, four times. Had to throw away all my short sleeves.
I can't write anymore. I loved writing. Had a book going. My creativity's dead. My job sucked it out of my head, aborted it, and replaced it with a gray three-ring binder of insurance regulations. That's the hardest thing to come to grips with. My sense of humor's gone. I'm rotten, cynical, and depressing.
I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating. I'm not talking to people who aren't calling me at work, and I'm not writing. I think about killing myself. I'm not registering for graduate school. I'm not getting closer to my dream career, and if I ever got close, I'm sure they'd do a background check, find me here, venting, and reject my application. And that's depressing, also.
I think there are fleas in my bed. My room's clean, but I'm getting bitten by some little insect bastard every night.
I need to sort things out. I went to a restaraunt today, and for whatever reason, nearly cried in my General Tso's Chicken. It was just chicken. Sad, depressing chicken.
